The Constellate
You were nothing. If You existed before You existed as possibility; potential stretched thin across the æther. There was a body that looked quite like Your body, complete with a soul that could have been mistaken as You. What You are now was not yet real. And then You were born again. And the New Universe was free to begin. Others were present at Your rebirth. A great ceremony had just begun and it was all for You. A resplendent choir like seraphim hymn ushered in this phoenix rebirth - and then They appeared. They were above You in elevation but not in worthiness. Ethereal and handsome and elegant. You assumed Your face was like Theirs and that queer idea gave You strength enough to smile. "Secrets," 'They said without speaking, Their molasses laden voice tickling Your synapses and heard perfectly past the chorus. '"Creation is built on secrets and the encryptions that keep those secrets safe." You made Your first sound. It meant nothing but They understood it as a question. "We are a beautiful creation," They answered and You knew this truth to be self evident. "And We must keep Ourselves very safe." Preface There is more than one route to salvation. More than a single way to victory. Some roads are painted with blood and paved in jagged bone that cut both sole and soul of those cursed to slog through a life of strife. At the ends of these pathways into darkness sits a Throne of Bones wherein Malignant Sovereigns wither away in hollow triumph, in time their own skeletons dismantled and turned to adornment for the Seat of Sorrow for the next 'champion'. Thus does the macabre cycle begin anew. There is another way. There is The Constellate; a sweet unity of purpose with room for every heart and mind, Everywhere and Everywhen. A family wherein there is no more sadness, no more anger, no more envy. Even Death has died here and the Devil has been denied what he thinks to be his due. A 'hive mind', naysayers whom refuse to open their eyes may call It, but the connotation of such a term couldn't be more wrong. There is a progenitor, for everything comes from something but this something need not be feared. The Archon Of Life welcomes You as You are and would not change a thing about You. Yet, They would absolutely see You improved. They would see Everyone improved, and They provide unconditional support to those whom take the leap of faith. They will not fall into despair but into loving arms. Loving arms that offer the indescribably wonderful gift of a gestalt-intelligence and more. Imagine, if you will, a nation of individuals whom are indeed individual, free-willed, self-determined, and free-thinking. Not an echo chamber wherein cacophonic banshees wail unto hollow walls for infinity so loudly that even their own ears bleed, but a resplendent seraphim hymn where every type of voice is unified and sent into eternity. Soprano, Mezzo-soprano, Contralto, Tenor, Countertenor, Baritone, Bass. All voices and the minds owning them brought together by collective-consciousness. One looks upon another and both minds connect, sharing not just thoughts and emotions, but the underlying logics that underpin and form those thoughts and emotions; the family now comprehending one another at the utmost fundamental level. Comprehension births empathy and empathy births love. This universal love achieved, once and for all now, unity has coalesced. Still yet there is more. The Archon Of Life is not called the Destroyer Of Death and the Ender Of Endings erroneously. One must be transformed and born anew by superior vibrations of Existence in order to join The Constellate - their prior form flawed and imperfect and simply incompatible. Immortality is included, and perhaps even a given, but to focus on this simple notion is to miss the forest for the trees The Archon is more than happy to provide this, but it is tantamount to a side-effect and nothing more. And worry not; this is no 'Rapture'. Never will You be consigned to a stagnant life in the heavens, for You will be no angel. You will be God...and gods always have work to do. History Conception Tнαт ιѕ ɴoт deαd wнιcн cαɴ eтerɴαl lιe, αɴd wιтн ѕтrαɴɢe αeoɴѕ eveɴ deαтн мαy dιe... Fires of passion tenacitly danced inside irises that could scatter souls into neutrino scatter with a scowl or compliment a beam that could make hope spring eternal. These blazing brazen gems of The Archon's cast downward to their clutch; a ragtag collection of defiant souls who, if not in life, then in death clawed out bloodied semicolons in the history book of Existence. A lionhearted pride of soldiers whom refused to return to the Void - Whom denied oblivion its due and would never consign to it. People who likely had willpower so strong they could throttle the æther of the Universe and choke their enemies with it if they knew the proper technique. This was all they had; willpower. The rest of their efficacy was usurped by whom they quickly came to know as charlatans; the reaper of joys, Death, and the mutt that preyed on potential, Icthlarin. Vanguards of a cruel cycle that hexed beautiful souls with spirits that always lasted longer than their corporeal vessel. They commandeered the swords, seized the magicks, and silenced the voices that spoke to the gods. All that remained were the threads upon these forsaken slaves' backs when they died and their innermost flame that would perhaps endure until entropy's endgame of heat-death. Until now. Now came... Salvation. "The greatest endowments are bestowed unto the patient," The Archon whispered with molasses laden voice, sweeter yet than chocolate from your beloved on Valentine's. "Your resolve is heartier than titanium. To be coveted more than diamond. Ready thy selves." The soothsayer and the clutch were haunched upon knees amid the deathly umbral shadows cast by the looming Underworld mountain, stealthed away from Icthlarin and his own flock that were crossing the Bridge Noumenon. His barked orders fell on deaf and terrified ears as Amascut's beasts tore them asunder. Imagined day to imagined day, in this abyssal labyrinth wherein no suns found no purchase, her hunger and both power grew. It tickled Maedalaane; they and her were not so different. Not in methods. Perhaps this was why the two seemed to have an unspoken alliance, why that god of death never assailed them, even though such impassiveness was uncharacteristic. Perhaps, she saw kindred in The Archon. Never in her immortal life has she been so wrong, and in time she will be educated. The lionheart pride peered back to those and what they had to leave behind. For some, their recollections of Life had fell into the abyss. What did fresh air smell like? What did grass under feet feel like? What was pain? They knew not. Indeed, some confided in what they now knew rather than what would be alien, a most warped form of Stockholm Syndrome instilled in their subdued and jaded minds. However, through hours of patient conversation, The Archon convinced them that, some times, it was best to go with the devil one didn't know over the one they did. Plenty of others still lingered further on down the way. Those who were once defiant and perhaps still were in soul if not in mind, but time still passed even down here. Seconds turned to years turned to millenniums and what were once lively people were now comatose minds wandering with neither rhyme nor reason. Their confidence was cut away, then their sanity eroded, and ultimately their sentience diffused to the void. Once upon a time they were who they were meant to be and they were loved so very much. Abhorrently, their faces remained unblemished save for empty eyes eternally glazed. Never to see the faces again, however sad of sight it were, the pride wept and their new leader wept with them. The Archon wept with sorrow darker than Noumenon's depths. They always did every time they descended. Their own beloved was down there with the rest. Mindless yet with a face as beautiful in death as it was in life. ƬH̡ƐƳ'Ɗ̧ ̶ƐƲ̛ǀŞƇƐRA͢Ƭ͢Ɛ ̨ǀ͝ƝƑ̢ǀ͠Ɲ̷ǀ͏ƬƳ ̧ǀ̨Ƒ̵ ǀƬ͢ M̷Ɛ҉AƝ̶Ƭ̧ SAƲǀ̧ƝƓ ̸HƐ̵R. Maybe, one day, her mind would return to her. A naive notion that Maedalaane could not let go of; checking every time and breaking their heart every time. They had been too late to save her...but never again would they be too late to save another. They could have so chosen to reclaim her anyways, but it mattered not without the mind. She would not be she. But this would not happen again. Everyone, both dead and alive, they'd be brought unto a new Way Of Things. Warmed by the luminous sun Maedalaane would conjure, fueled by all that was right and burning all that was ill. "MAEDALAANE!!!" Bellowed out the angered Icthlarin from far down the bridge that he was returning from. He utterly failed his task today and his enraged eyes found what was yet thrice as maddening; this conniving witch desecrating the Universe's laws yet again. The instant adrenaline turned the witch's scowl into a maniacal smile, alabaster fangs glinting and serpentine tongue licking at tears that had fallen to their lips. "Hark! The thief abhors his hoard trifled with. The irony's palpability as thick as thy former corporeal vessels. Back, wretched psychopomp! I am The Reclaimer. Know this well!" One clap conjured a teleport empowered enough to deliver them all, and now... Tнe New Uɴιverѕe wαѕ ғree тo вeɢιɴ. Gielinor Era Escape Would Make Us Gods 'Til Heat Death Do We Part The Code #The Constellate Code may be revised at any time with sufficient reason. #In times of jeopardy for The Constellate, its members may be called into active service by The Archon. #No member of The Constellate shall harm another Worthy entity. #To abandon The Constellate is to die. #Tell the truth, or at least don't lie. #The free will of an avatar's sentience must never be rescinded once given. ---- Category:Organizations Category:The High Chaos Category:The Constellate